


Mission: Theraphosa blondi

by Arya_Greenleaf



Series: 30 Day OTP Challenge [2]
Category: Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Naked Cuddling, One Shot Collection, naked kissing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-05 10:28:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1815262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arya_Greenleaf/pseuds/Arya_Greenleaf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here's part two of the 30 Day OTP Challenge series. This one is all Clintasha ficlets/drabble.  As before, each "chapter" will be a stand-alone story unless otherwise specified. I will add tags as appropriate. Enjoy!</p><p>UPDATE: Added challenge summaries, see first "chapter."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Table of Contents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Added 05 October 2014. NOT AN UPDATE.
> 
> I'm so sorry about the slowness of this series, guys. Seriously so sorry. I haven't abandoned it, I PROMISE.
> 
> I'll update this page each time I update the series with an appropriate summary of each addition. Mostly because I hate when the search result boxes are huge with dozens of tags and far too much text. Makes finding things on mobile absolute hell.

[Challenge 1: Naked Cuddling](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1815262/chapters/3896707)

  * Also known as: What the hell happened in Budapest and how it really isn't an actual thing. Clint and Natasha are only human and they need some comfort.



[Challenge 2: Naked Kissing](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1815262/chapters/4000941)

  * Strike Team Delta is sent out on a mission. One half of the team is compromised. Urgent extraction is needed. Fairly certain no one is going to die just yet, Clint and Natasha make the most of the wait. Or is it actually because someone might die? Doesn't matter.




	2. Challenge One: Cuddling Naked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title refers to the Goliath birdeater, a tarantula that doesn't actually eat birds at all.

Inevitably, one of them always said it. "This is like Budapest all over again!" One of them always said it when the mission looked like it was heading south. When they were overwhelmed. When it looked like they weren't going to make it home this time. It had become a ritual. Something shared between them that no one else understood and they could never put into words when asked. It had come to mean something more.

"Are you okay?"

"I need help."

"Holy fucking shit look at all those aliens."

"Cover me."

"I've got your six."

"Just in case..."

"I care for you."

"Watch out."

But there was something more. Something left unspoken but meant in every sense: "I love you."

The answer was always the same. The callback to reassure the other side of the pair, "You seem to remember Budapest a lot differently than I do."

When you were fighting side by side with people in weaponized robotic armor, gods from another world, genetically-enhanced super soldiers, and impermeable green rage monsters sometimes you just needed to know you weren't alone in the world. They had a highly specialized set of skills, but they were still regular Joes. They got tired. They got hurt. They endured.

It was the moments after a mission--after a battle, a scramble for their lives--which they had learned to cherish. No matter which of their homes that they wound up at, there was always a bottle of good vodka in the freezer and a pot of freshly brewed coffee on the counter. They would pour their favored beverage and pick their way gingerly to the couch, wincing over bruised ribs, strains and sprains, breaks, cuts and scrapes and bumps. They would sit there, drinking until they found the motivation to function again.

By that time the ache had always settled in. There were only human.

There had been a flock of Doombots crawling through Chelsea. It hadn't been hard to take them out, especially not with Thor smashing through things with his hammer and calling up wind and lightening to whip everything around, including them. When all was said and done, they found themselves in Clint's loft in Bed-Stuy. The stairs had been a killer, but they'd managed in the end and Lucky's happily wagging tail and soft fur and warm body between them on the couch was more comfort than either of them could have imagined asking for. Coffee pot long drained, several more fingers of vodka gone than probably was strictly necessary, Clint and Natasha braved the stairs again; this time up to the second floor of the loft and driven only by the desire to be clean.

It was another part of the ritual and keeping up with that ritual was important. It kept them grounded in reality while the world spun off into insanity and sank into the realm of things they were never trained for.

Natasha went first. She would sit on the edge of the bed and unbuckle all of her various holsters and belts. She would check the fill of her magazines and the charge of her bracelets. They'd be set aside and she would take off her boots, wiggling her toes and rolling her ankles and generally checking to make sure everything was still in the right place. Only then would she stand and slip the zipper of her suit down and peel it off of her clammy, sweaty skin.

Clint went second. He'd shuck his shoes and unstrap his bracer then he'd peel off his tabs from fingers usually swollen from over-use or impact. He'd take off his own holsters and check his own magazines. He would check his quiver later. That was a part of a more private ritual--stripping and replacing fletching, replenishing trick and specialty arrows. He would have time for that later. Finally, off would go his tac gear and he would join Natasha in the bathroom where she was gently working out tangles and snares from her hair in front of the mirror.

Clint would turn on the shower and wait for the water to regulate at a comfortable temperature while he watched her work. When she was tangle free and the water was nice and warm, Clint would put out his hand and she would take it as she stepped into the shower, pulling him along behind her.

The shower always went a long way toward relaxing sore muscles and tightly wound nerves. They could look each other over, make sure there weren’t any major injuries they’d missed or couldn’t feel. They could wash away the grime and the dust and the blood.

Natasha sighed as she leaned back against Clint under the gentle spray. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her firmly, mouthing at her shoulder. She reached up to card her fingers should his wet hair, holding him holding her.

When they felt adequately clean and just about as relaxed from the water they were ever going to get while still managing to maintain control of shaky, tired legs as their adrenaline started to slide Natasha would turned the water off. Clint would offer a hand out of the tub. After drying off, they would pick their slow way to the bed.

If Clint was bothered by Natasha’s wet hair soaking his pillows and bedding, he never complained.

Not that he’d feel it much with Natasha’s body curled around him, his back pressed flush to her chest and her fingers dancing over his hips and stomach and arms until he caught them and brought them to his lips, leaving a soft kiss on the tip of each before clutching her hands close as if afraid she was going to slip away. He’d shift and fidget until their legs were entangled.

They were content to lie there, wrapped in each other. They relished in the feel of warms skin on warm skin. The tickle of hair and breath. The softness of the mattress. The stillness of the loft disturbed only by Lucky’s snuffling or pacing on the floor below.

At some point, they would let themselves succumb to fatigue and heavy limbs and leaden eyelids. Natasha’s soft humming would force Clint closer to the edge. He’d asked her what the tune was once. Something to do with warding evil from someone precious. His heart had swelled with pride and love and he’d answered, “Oh. That’s cool.”

As they drifted closer to the edge one would say, “This is like Budapest all over again.”

“You seem to remember Budapest a lot differently than I do.”

And sleep would claim them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do so hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> Clint is TOTALLY a little spoon and you can't tell me otherwise.
> 
> Kept this one slow and sort of vaguely romantic to keep with the less raunchy theme of "cuddling" even though it was naked cuddling. Smut to follow.
> 
> As ever, thank you for reading and for the feedback. You can follow progress for this series in the otp challenge tag on Onheil's blog, linked in the series header for this collection.


	3. Challenge Two: Kissing Naked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strike Team Delta goes off on a mission that may end badly.

“I-I-I’mmm gonnah k-killll Fuh-Fury when w-we get huh-ohhmm.”

Natasha raised a brow and peered at Barton out of the corner of her eye, trying not to take too much attention away from the man in her scope.

“Fuh—fuckin’ Russia…in wuh-winter.”

They’d been out in the cold, white landscape of Siberia for more than a week now. They’d been tracking their target from safe house to safe house, contact to contact, trying to gather the most information possible before it became completely necessary to eliminate him. Natasha could have reasonably completed the task on her own, but admittedly, she’d been lonely. Barton had been away on his own mission for nearly a month, trekking through the desert somewhere and never checking in until he was ready for extraction. Also admittedly, she thought the change from the dry, blistering heat of the desert to the extreme cold of the forests they were camping in was a sides-splittingly funny change. Barton hadn’t really been of the same opinion.

“Nnn-d aft-after I kill Fury…Immmah kill you.”

“Shut up, Hawk.”

“Mmm-make me.” He found himself with a handful of snow down the back of his pants. His only choice was to endure it, they were close enough that movement or sound might give their position away. Neither really wanted to have to shoot their way out of a situation at that moment. “Nnn-not nn-ice.”

“Never said I was.” Her tone was low and even, belied by the grin plastered across her face. Hours later, the last vehicle drove slowly away, lights off until it reached the main road. Smoke puffed out of the chimney of the snow-covered cabin. If it wasn’t currently housing a sociopath hell-bent on genocide and world domination, it might have been quaint. “Ready to move in?”

Barton nodded. He seemed to have finally gotten used to the temperature, or simply had gone numb. “What’s our plan of action? I actually think it might be better to try to bring him to the extraction point. Let SHIELD deal with him personally.”

“You don’t think it would be easier to just go in there and get the information ourselves?”

“You think he’s gonna invite us in for coffee and a conversation?”

“Of course not.”

“Then how do you propose we get the information?”

Natasha patted the toolkit strapped to her waist. “Fingernails. One at a time.”

“And what about the screaming. We’re still close enough to the road that someone will hear.”

“We put your sock in his mouth.”

“Why my sock?”

“Because your feet are gross.”

He glared at her for a moment, “How is he supposed to talk if he’s got my gross sock in his mouth?”

“You take the sock out, stupid.”

“And then he starts screaming.” She shot him a look at he quieted, clearly knowing he was not going to win this particular argument.

Their guy had held out for a pretty damned long time, Natasha had to give him credit for that. They’d only had to stuff a sock in his mouth twice. Clint had been a spoilsport and made her use the guy’s own sock rather than taking Clint’s. They’d gotten a hell of a lot of information before he passed out and quite a bit more after they roused him. They were burying him in the unfinished basement, hard work with the ground mostly frozen, when someone came to the door.

They quickly covered the body with cold earth and crept through the darkened house and out the back door. No one was supposed to have reason to come back. They should’ve had more time. But if there was one thing Natasha was good at, it was adapting quickly. “Let’s go!” She hissed as they quietly shut the door and picked their way back toward the tree line.

For all of their furtiveness, they were chased anyway. After running for hours, they’d finally lost their tail. “’Tash, I think it’s safe to head toward th—“ There was a loud crack, a crash, and a splash as Clint fell through the icy pond hidden by the fresh snowfall. There was silence. Natasha scrambled toward the edge of the hole he created as quickly as she could without compromising the ice and falling in herself. “Clint? Clint!”

Bubble rose to the glassy, black surface of the water. “Goddamnit, Barton!” As she was steeling herself to slip into the cold depths and find him—everything her training said she should not do but everything her heart said she had to do—he surfaced, wild-eyed and gasping and sputtering. She hauled him up and dragged him away from the ice, listening to it as it splintered and cracked beneath their weight.

She rubbed circles on the back of his neck while he brought himself to all fours and wretched and coughed. “C’mon, safe house isn’t too far away. Just another mile. We can make it. We’ll radio for extraction.” He nodded, but didn’t make a move to stand. “Barton, we can’t get there if you don’t get up.”

He looked up at her, dazed, his lips blue. He wasn’t shivering. That wasn’t good. She knelt beside him, “Clint, please. I can’t go home without you.”

“This is like Budapest all over again.” His voice was barely a whisper, but it was enough. She nodded and responded that she remembered Budapest a lot differently than he did.

It was slow going. Natasha was worried that their tail might pick them up again, that there had been too much noise when Clint fell into the water. But somehow, they made it to the safe house without further incident. Not that the safe house was much of an improvement over the freezing cold, Siberian night.

No electricity. No running water. The bathroom was a closet with a hole in the ground.

But there was a fireplace and plenty of wood. It was risky. Too risky. But she couldn’t let Barton die. Not like this.

She helped him gently down onto the dusty floor and pulled the utility knife out of her belt loop to start cutting away his wet, half-frozen clothing. He was just barely shaking. At least there was that. He looked up at her with desperate eyes as his teeth chattered and his now bare chest heaved with shallow puffs. She eased him up to sitting and pulled the sodden clothing out from under his body before tucking a rather threadbare, dusty blanket beneath him.

He curled in on himself, pulling the blanket over his body. So he could move, albeit slowly and barely. That was good. This would be so much easier if she had another person here. It would help him so much more. She needed to radio for extract but Clint was the priority. She dumped wood into the small hearth and dropped a match into it. It must have been there for a while. It flared immediately; it was so dried out—a miracle in itself in a place like this.

“’T-t-t-t-ash?”

“Yeah, Clint?”

She stripped out of her layers of hide and fur and flannel and got down onto the floor. “I th-th-th-ink I’m g-gonna d-die.” His teeth were slamming together. His body was trembling. She eased him closer to the fire so that the warmth washed over his back while she pressed herself to him, gathering him in her arms.

“No you’re not. You’re too thick-headed to die like this.” His feet felt like cold fish. His skin was clammy and cold. She wished his lips weren’t so blue. Natasha dipped her head down to kiss his forehead. “And you’re not allowed to leave me alone out here. She reached an arm out to pull her radio out of her pile of clothes and gave the code for urgent extraction. When the answer volleyed back she barked out that Barton was compromised and hypothermic. SHIELD confirmed that they would be there within several hours.

She babbled at him, trying to keep him awake and alert, trying to avoid letting him slip into shock.

“Natashka?”

“You know I hate it when you call me that.”

“That’s why I call you that.”

She rolled her eyes. His body still felt too cold. He was shivering but seemed to have gotten control over the convulsions. She stopped worrying about whether or not he was going to smash his teeth to bits with their chattering. “What, you big dork?”

“This is just like Budapest.”

“Yeah. But I remember it differently.” She shivered and she wasn’t sure if it was the chill at her back or his warmed breath on her neck. “Barton, I—“

“You talk too much.” He cut her protest off with his mouth on hers.

“Clint, you’re in no condition for this.” She craned her neck back to look at him. He looked exhausted but considerably more like himself.

“But I need it.” Natasha pressed her forehead to his. Her adrenaline was still running high with the fear of being intercepted having kick started it and the fear of losing him amping it to high gear. She needed it too. So she gave him what he needed.

They kissed slowly, tenderly, Natasha constantly pressing her fingers to pulse points and rubbing her hands gently over any flesh she could reach to create friction and try to warm him further. She didn’t care if he noticed. He responded in kind, kneading her breasts with hands trapped between their bodies. When she writhed against him he keened from someplace deep in his gut.

“Extract team is going to be upset when they find us like this.” He was mouthing at her collarbone, his hand was snaking out to run down her spine, pausing briefly over each vertebrae.

“Fuck the extract team.”

“Well, that’s not very pleasant sounding. I don’t particularly want to fuck any of them.” He chuckled and found her lips again, an unexpected burst of energy making his mouth a desperate, hungry thing.

Natasha responded in kind, her fingers gripping his damp hair and holding his face to hers.

When the extract team arrived they found the pair still before the fire, burning considerably lower. Clint was fast asleep, face obscured where it was pressed to Natasha’s shoulder, his arms locked around her torso. He was shivering lightly, on and off. Natasha watched as they gathered him up on the stretcher, wrapped in a foil blanket and looking like a blonde-headed burrito.

She made a mental note as she bundled back into her clothing, to tell Clint that Chipolte should name a new dish in honor of him. The Hawkeye. Mild salsa and chicken for the chicken-shit who couldn’t take the cold. He’d scoff at her and shake his head. But his ears would turn red with his blush. And when medical had cleared him he would show up at her door with a bottle of good vodka and they would finish what they started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Less sexy, more needful and desperate. I feel like it fits their personalities and relationship.
> 
> That and I just take some twisted joy out of putting Clint in horrible situations. I really do love him, I swear.
> 
> The banter about how to extract information from their target is inspired by a similar exchange between Natasha and (I believe) Jessica Drew. I can't remember who was in the panel with her, but I'm sure it was Jessica.
> 
> As ever, thank you for reading and for the feedback.


End file.
